Companionship
by STRiPESandShades
Summary: Finwe Elkoss is a sorcerer. A magic-user. Not one of the big, brutish Nords, and certainly not one to even think to join the Companions. But when she comes to Jorrvaskur to find help with her armor, she gets unwittingly swept into a world of bare-knuckle brawling, lycanthropy, and long-lost artifacts guarded by hordes of undead. What in the name of the divines has she gotten into?
1. The Mistake

_A/N: Hey guys! This is my first story in a long time, and it's been a long time coming, so I hope you all enjoy!  
>(also, I own none of Skyrim, Elder Scrolls, any of the characters or lore herein- except for Finwe, I suppose. No suing. Suing bad.)<em>

CHAPTER ONE **THE MISTAKE**

"So, you're here to join us, the Companions, I see!" the boisterous bear of a man named Kodlak Whitemane cried loudly, waving a welcoming arm gesturing her further inside.

She stared, wide-eyed, not entirely sure how to reply.

When someone described Jorrvaskur to Finwe Elkoss as a "mead hall", she expected something closer to the Bannered Mare. A bar, perhaps, or ladies in tight clothing serving ale to tables, a stage maybe for bards or theater.

But not this.

Off to one side, a scrawny girl in torn, repaired, and torn again armor brawled bare-fisted the Nord way with a Dark Elf who seemed too pointed, too cunning and moved too quick. In the center of the room, surrounding a blissfully warm fire pit was a huge table piled high with food and enough meat to populate a small forest. A woman with her face painted in dark green slashes chatted up a pair of identical looking men, twins, Finwe supposed. One of them must have made a funny remark, because all three began to laugh hearty, full-belly laughs.

"I- I need to speak with Eorland Gray-Mane. That's all," she stammered.

"Ahh, but first thing's first, new whelp, how about we take you out to the training yard and see about that arm of yours?"

"What-? Uhh, no, that- that probably won't be necessary, you see, I just have a question about my armor-"

But Kodlak didn't seem to be listening. "Vilkas!"

One of the twins looked up. "Yeah?"

"Take this one outside and let's see what she can do."

Vilkas frowned, but stood up anyways, "Alright. Come on, whelp."

Finwe was panicking. Test her arm? Unless it was raised to cast a spell, that would be useless. Desperately, she scanned the room for a weapon, any weapon before the others realized she didn't actually carry one on her. At last, her eyes fell on a greatsword, the steel glistening in the firelight.

Gingerly, she picked it up, seriously underestimating its weight as she nearly dropped it before resolving to grab at its second grip, above one of the handguards. Why were there two grips, she wondered. Maybe it was like the staff the other bosmer taught her? She switched the positioning of her hands, one grip facing up, the other down and took an experimental swing, just narrowly missing nicking her right knee.

Okay, maybe it doesn't actually work like that, but it'll have to do.

She straightened and threw her shoulders back the way the green-painted lady did and tried to stride out of the room with feigned confidence.

_What in the name of the Divines have I gotten myself into?_

...

She took a swing left, then another right, a pair of butcher-chops with the massive slab of steel in her hands, in a way she hoped was threatening and cool-looking.

Vilkas looked more confused than anything.

"Well, come on already! Hit me!"

"Ooookay! Here it comes!" she warned, before bringing the sword down with a mighty thrust.

One step to the side, and the sword came down with a clatter, cutting a deep scar in the dust.

"Too slow," he said, "And you don't need to project your hits like that."

"Alright!" she cried, renewing her grip on the leather, before whipping the greatsword up and left, which was far too easily dodged, then right, which was knocked lazily out of the way.

"Have you even _held_ a sword before?" he asked incredulously, the truth dawning on him.

"Umm, well," Finwe stammered, "I've never held one like this before," she admitted.

"What do you normally use then? A war axe? A one-hand blade? We have plenty you can borrow if you need to. Even a bow and arrow is fine by us, our archers do just fine."

"Well, I uhh- I- I use magic!" she blurted out, then suddenly gasped with shame.

"You _what_?"

"I'm a magic user," she admitted shamefully, hanging her head "A wizard. I fight with magic."

"_You._" Vilkas stomped over to Kodlak, angry with him for some reason, "You said this- this sorcerer was to join our ranks? That you had some insight about this enchantress?"

The Harbinger brushed past Vilkas, training his dark eyes on the girl instead, "I'm sorry to have put you on the sport like that," he apologized, the pity and shame heavy in his voice. "I didn't realize that you were here to train from the basics. Why don't you head inside and we'll get you set up with a sparring sword, Farkas will show you what he knows."

Finwe nodded, humiliated.

By the time she'd gone inside, retrieved a blunt, wooden stick that only bore a passing resemblance to the greatsword she'd just attempted and headed back out, Farkas was already doing stretches in the training yard, innocently showing off his muscles to a group of girls gathered on the porch.

Thankfully, he didn't seem angry or upset that he was essentially showing her what a Nordic child would know of a sword.

_Maybe he's given this kind of training before?_

"Hey, I killed a bear yesterday," an Imperial named Ria cheerfully exclaimed to the woman next to her, "Did you kill anything today?"

_Probably not._

"Are you coming or not, pup?" Farkas called.

Pup, that was new. Below 'whelp', she supposed.

"Alright. First lesson. Stick 'em with the pointy end."

_A/N: Many thanks for reading! _


	2. The Task

_A/N: Alright, chapter two! Also, my apologies to Brynjar. I just couldn't resist._

CHAPTER TWO **THE TASK**

"It's strange to see a Wood Elf such as yourself with a surname," one of the twins remarked.

_Vilkas_, she reminded herself, _Vilkas is the smart one._

She shrugged, "I was adopted actually, by an armorer outside of Anvil in Cyrodill. He took me in, so I took his name."

"So you're not from Valenwood, huh."

"Nope! Born and bred on the Gold Coast, thank-you-very-much. I actually don't know anything about my parents. Dad said he felt 'compelled' to go the the local temple and pray one night and found that I had been left there. Wild, right?"

"Finwe," Farkas called, using her first name the way no one else seemed able to, "I have a job for you, here in the city."

She drained her flagon in one large gulp and stood, "Gotta see what your brother needs," she apologized before crossing the room. "What's up?"

"A priest, Brother Brynjar, owes a lot of money to powerful people and doesn't wanna pay. You rough 'im up and tell him he has to. I don't want to see any killings. Understood?"

"No death, got it."

"Then go."

...

And suddenly, they were brawling.

_Left hook, right jab, left swing,_ she tried to remember the moves D'zigo tried to show her, tried to duck and dodge, bob and weave, but one wild swing and one poorly-timed dodge meant his fist connecting solidly with her eye.

Dazed, spinning and seeing stars, Finwe didn't even realize she was doing it when she reflexively reached for her magicka, bright embers fluttering from her fingertips.

Brynjar cried out, desperately trying to stomp out the smoldering trail of his robes.

_Eh, Farkas said no killing, not no magic_, she mused to herself, _And if I'm in for a silver, I'm in for a septim_.

She shrugged, unleashing a wave of flame towards the hem of the acolyte's robes, met with another shriek.

"Had enough?"

"That's no honorable way to fight!" he cried, "That's not the true, Nord way!"

"Do I look like a Nord? Pay up, or the rest of you might go up in flames," she threatened, a small flare to the flagstones between them demonstrating her point.

"Alright! Alright! I'll pay!"

"Glad we're understood. And if I hear from you again, I have cold and sparks as well," she held up her hands, her left tipped with icicles and frost, the right, a ball of lightning gathering in her palm.

"Y-Yes, miss- yes ma'm. We are understood. Won't happen again. Ma'm."

"Good."

...

"Took care of the priest problem! And the pie problem!" Finwe announced as she threw open one of the double-doors to Jorrvaskur, unloading her peace offering onto the nearest table. "Seriously, how could you guys have never heard of Ironwood Nut pie?"

Vilkas rolled his eyes and waved her over, clearly he didn't care. "Skjor was looking for you."

"Oh? What did he need?"

"Dunno, but he seemed... impatient."

"Gotcha. I'll go see what's going on. Try the pie, by the way!"

"Iron... wood...?" Vilkas murmured as soon as the wood elf was out of earshot, poking at the pie's crust.

Aela beside him just shrugged.

After swiping a sweetroll from the table downstairs and dutifully checking each and every room for him, Finwe finally found Skjor in the Harbinger's office.

"Masser's full is coming soon, tomorrow or the next day," she heard him say, "Some of us might have a hard time with control."

Quickly, hoping she wouldn't be noticed, Finwe ducked into the space beside the doorframe, picking at the pastry, wondering just what she was eavesdropping in on.

"Farkas and Vilkas seems to be getting better about it, at Secunda's full, they managed to avoid people and not be seen the whole night. Aela, however..." Kodlak's voice trailed.

"Even if one of us stayed with her, if she loses her mortal mind, we can't keep her in check. And I don't want to see the incident at Shor's Stone happen again."

"I know, Skjor, I'll talk to her later. Maybe she'd be willing to take one of her hunting trips that weekend."

"Alright," was all he said, sounding properly dismissed.

Finwe heard the scraping of the chair against the stone floor, realizing she was about to be caught. Panicking, she raced down the opposite hall as quickly and quietly as she could manage, and pretended to be studying a small soul gem on the table.

"There you are," Skjor called, "I've been looking for you."

"Oh?" Finwe asked, pretending she hadn't noticed him behind her at all.

"I have a job for you, a big one. Do you know what the Wuuthrad is?"

"Isn't that the axe of Ysgramor?"

He nodded, "Yeah, that's it. Hundreds of years ago, it was shattered into many pieces, and we think we've found one. I want you to go and retrieve it."

"_Me_?" she nearly screamed, "You want _me_ to go and find one of your _sacred artifacts_? I can barely swing a sword! Daggers are giving me trouble! Wouldn't a job this important go to- I dunno- _Farkas_ or someone who's an _actual Companion_?"

"That's half the reason why he's going with you. Farkas is to be your Shield-Brother, he's to watch how you fight, how you work. If you complete this task honorably and well, you will be made a full Companion."

Finwe gaped, "This is my Trial, isn't it?"

"It is," he nodded.

Instead of giving her a moment to collect her thoughts and somehow come up with a reply, he simply walked away, probably to find a bear to wrestle or something.

She knew this was her make-or-break moment. The point of no return. She could walk away now with her honor and dignity intact, she could find some other smith to help her, she'd heard good things about a man in Riften.

_No, _she thought to herself bitterly,_ You will prove to these people that you are more than some flaky wizard. You will prove that you are a warrior. _

In for a silver, in for a septim.

_A/N: Thanks for reading thus far!_


	3. The Trial

_A/N: Promise I didn't forget! Enjoy!_

CHAPTER THREE **THE TRIAL**

"Just be careful," he said as he slowed to let Finwe catch her breath, the tip of the sword in her hand dragging noisily behind her as she followed him through the catacombs. "I don't want to haul your ass to Jorrvaskur myself."

"Right." Of course. There was no way she'd be the first whelp to fail her Trial thanks to a handful of scrawny, shambling dragur. No way. If Farkas could knock them aside as easily as swatting flies, she could at least keep up and not get herself killed.

Fighting their way further down underground, a few corpses dared to rouse, taking their time clambering out of their little shelves, giving both of them time to quickly dispatch them. Some of the stronger ones were buried vertically in heavy iron caskets, which they burst out of furiously, but only one or two of them would awaken at any given time.

Soon, they reached a wide open chamber, two throne-like chairs sitting side-by side in the center. Finwe prayed they were getting close to the end, she was growing more and more claustrophobic in these tightly-wound corridors that smelled like bad Breton cheese.

Silently, they worked their way around the room, feeling for an exit of any sort.

"It looks like this gate is covering the only way out!" Finwe cried in frustration.

"Sometimes there's a switch. Go look for it, I'll watch your back."

Wordlessly, she nodded and went off in search of a handle, a lever, a button even. Something, anything to get them out of there. This, of course, was made infinitely more difficult by the Nord standard of making such things impossible to see.

Finally, she came across a lever. This was sure to be it! Without a second thought, she grabbed the big wooden handle with both hands, and wrenched it open. The gate slammed down closed behind her.

"Now look at what you've gotten yourself into," Farkas sighed. "No worries. Just sit tight and I'll find the release."

"Found you, dog," a voice growled in the darkness.

Suddenly, out leapt a contingient of men armed to the teeth with swords that shone strangely in the weak candlelight, effectively surrounding him.

"We knew you would be here, Companion."

"Farkas!" Finwe screamed, rattling against the bars with all her might, "_FARKAS!_"

They were going to kill him!

Then there came an ugly roaring, rending, sickeningly creaking sound. Farkas bent over double, then fell to his hands and knees, his spine arching backwards as something dark and terrible grew from within. From one moment to the next, there was no longer Farkas the man. Only a beast stood in its place.

She ducked behind a solid patch of wall, her hand clamped tight to her mouth as she willed herself not to scream in sheer terror. What was that- that _thing_? Where did it come from? How in Oblivion did he transform into it?

Whole minutes were filled with the men's cries of terror and pain, roars and swears and shouts cut short by the snarls of the beast. Then, all was silent.

The gate lifted. Farkas, human, stood, a smear of blood spread down his mouth and across his armor.

"Are you okay?"

"Wh-What?" was all she could manage to stammer, sliding to the dank and dusty floor. "What?"

Farkas took a seat across from her, his silver eyes boring into her skull, "I'm what you call a 'werewolf'. I can transform, it makes me more powerful. Some people don't like that. They're called the Silver Hand, and they're trying to kill all of us."

Finwe didn't know what to say. For one thing, she'd thought things like werewolves and the undead were all myths and stories to scare children, and now she's had to deal with both in one day. As she tried to sort these swirling thoughts in her head, the Nord across from her watched her carefully, apparently gauging her reaction. Could she trust him or would she pick up one of the swords strewn on the ground and run off to join the Hand?

"You're hurt," was all she said, noting a deep slash across his cheekbone.

"Stings, too. The weapons they were carrying were pure silver, hurts like nothing else."

Gathering a twist of golden light in her hand, she began to say, "If you want, I can-" but seeing him shy away from the glow, she remembered. Magic. Not to be trusted. Instead, she rummaged through her shoulder bag. "Here," she offered, handing him a flask full of pale pink liquid, and rising to her feet. "We should get moving."

"You're afraid," he noted, handing the empty bottle back to her.

"Yeah? And?"

"Don't be. I promise, I will never hurt you."

...

It seemed like hours dragged on as they traversed the twisting, tiny corridors, fighting their way through the dank hallways. Thankfully, they were both blessedly silent, mutely knocking aside various contingents of undead with only an occasional "Are you alright?" or "You okay?"

Finwe was beginning to think they were lost and would die down here, to join the legions of dragur themselves, when at last they reached what seemed to be the final resting chamber of the axe shard.

There it sat, a tiny scrap of wood and a handful of iron rivets on a pedestal in front of a wall with strange carvings.

"Here, put it in this," he said, producing a small carrying case to keep it safe.

She breathed a sigh of relief and elation as soon as he snapped it closed, "We did it, Farkas! We- wait, what's that sound?"

With a rumble and a creak, the coffins, the hundreds- maybe thousands- of upright dragur coffins sprung open, their restless inhabitants instantly on the attack.

Finwe tried to pull out the sword at her hip, tugging once, twice, and with a third, it flew free of its sheath with a clatter to the ground. Quickly, she swept it up, just in time to connect and block a dragur's rusty iron slash. With a kick, she sent it tumbling, and a stab to the chest ended it.

"Stay focused!" Farkas called, sweeping aside three with one mighty swing, "You can do this, pup!"

_I can do this_, she repeated in her head, skewering one dragur, crushing the skull of another with an elbow. _I can do this!_

"Heh, that was easy!" Finwe cried, trying to sound as nonchalant as she could manage.

But that was before she saw the hand, and then the arm clad in heavy ebony armor, and with it a muscle-bound torso, as a dragur, bigger than any she'd ever seen before lumbered out of its massive, black coffin.

Before either of them could react, it turned its eerie, blue eyes to Farkas and bellowed, "_FUS! ROH_ _DAH!_" The sheer force of those words alone sent him flying across the chamber, to slam painfully against the opposite wall.

"_FARKAS!_" she shouted, slashing at the necks of a the last of the undead, like slicing weeds in a garden, before racing down the rotting stairs to him.

"Oh no, no, you won't die on me yet," she muttered, conjuring healing light to her hands and pressing them to his chest. He was out cold and had no room to complain.

It seemed like forever, the dragur advancing on them both, when at last he sputtered awake. "Witch, what did you do to me...?" he coughed.

"No time!" she cried, shoving more healing energy into him as she pulled him to his feet.

Farkas looked absolutely drained, the color gone from his face and a glistening sheen of sweat shone on his cheeks as his greatsword wavered in his grip.

The dragur, however, showed no signs of slowing down as more burst out of their dark coffins, advancing on them both.

Farkas was exhausted, and her too, and while her attacks seemed to be doing little to deter the undead, it seemed as if there were no other options left. A bolt of fire leapt to her her hands.

"If you use your magic, I'll tell the others. They won't let you join, you'll have no honor," he growled.

"If I don't use my magic, we're dead!"

Before he could object any further, she opened her palm to the flagstones below and called forth the flames to shape and will.

The form of a woman, lithe and sleek tumbled and twisted in the air, her body alight with fire and embers. A flame atronach.

Farkas only roared a long string of curses, swinging even more fiercely at the undead surrounding him, desperately trying to ignore the wood elf firing a stream of flames at them.

In his rage, however, he wasn't paying enough attention to the wight dragur which stumbled its way behind him and brought down its massive, heavy sword at his back.

_This is how it ends_, he thought bitterly, _Saving the hide of some wizard whelp._

He looked up to what was surely about to be an ancient blade's edge, only to see the dragur forcefully fly into the opposite wall by a red-hot bolt of flame.

He stood, the brown elf's atronach dancing and spinning in place, a thin ribbon of fire licking between its ankles.

"Uhh, thanks. I think."

The atronach gave a silent nod.

Looking around, he was astounded to find the chamber silent, strewn with the charred and blackened bodies of twenty- maybe thirty dragur.

"Are you... alright?" Finwe asked breathlessly, wiping furiously at her brow with the back of her hand.

"I'm fine," he replied, looking away.

"Farkas are you- are you afraid of magic?" she asked gently.

"It doesn't scare me."

But his hands were shaking, worrying the leather of his greatsword in a nervously tight grip, and his eyes were wide with fear. It was a lie, and a bad one at that.

"I promise, she won't hurt you," she reassured him, "My summons won't harm you unless you go after them. Sometimes not even then. They're very gentle and _very_ protective of their summoners."

"Right," he replied, not feeling right at all.

What was this? Magic? Fire demons? Were these the dark beings that Vilkas would always tell him stories about, the ones that came from great gates of black stone, the skies above turning an unholy red with their evil might? And what did that make her? It didn't matter though. Magic was bad. Unreliable. Wizards were even worse.

"Hey," she said softly, putting a tiny hand on his shoulder, "I promise, I will never hurt you."

_A/N: You can't tell me I was the only one afraid that they would kill Farkas, right?  
>If you enjoyed it, leave me a review! Even if you didn't, that's okay, too!<em>


	4. Epilogue

CHAPTER FOUR **EPILOGUE**

The snow. There was just so much damn snow here, piles and mounds and drifts of it just absolutely everywhere in this country. Finwe leaned her head against the oak tree she sat beneath and took a sip of the potion in her fist, willing herself to ignore the powerful taste and even more powerful smell. She wondered if there was dirt under Skyrim or if it was snow all the way down.

"Feels nice, doesn't it?" Farkas beside her asked breathlessly, "Nothing like a good snow after a good battle."

"Easy for you to say. I miss my beaches, when's summer?"

He eyed her strangely, "This _is_ summer."

"Oh."

They sat like that for long minutes, watching the snow drift by. Finwe watched a fox, its pelt white, which was unusual for her. She considered conjuring up a firebolt and bringing it home to the Companions for dinner, just to prove that she could at least hunt, but thought better of it. They liked their meat red and rare, they would have no appreciation for a nice, charred fox.

Defeated, she instead studied her shield-brother beside her. Farkas. The big, wolf-man, Farkas. He was strong, no doubt about that. He fought well, and she supposed with honor, whatever that meant. And despite his simple words and lack of book-learning, he was kind-hearted and welcoming, even to unproven whelps such as her. She wondered what he would say about her, what he would tell the other Companions about her trial. He seemed to nice to truly betray her, or say all the unkind, true things about her faltering fighting style or paltry skills. But the magic, he swore to tell them, and after that she would be finished.

Watching him a moment longer, she noticed it, there, at his breastplate.

"Your armor... it's cracked," Finwe mumbled.

Farkas snorted, looking down at the sizeable hole along his torso, "So it is. You think your fire can fix it?"

She shook her head, "Fire magic is too uneven, too untempered. You need a very constant temperature properly handle metal like that," she replied, "It's funny, though, help with Nordic armor is what I really came to Jorvaskur for in the first place."

"What do you mean? What's wrong with it?"

"I dunno, it's just- it just _feels_ wrong. Like it wasn't smithed properly. Maybe I'm just too used to the way Father made it in Cyrodill, but still. I even brought it to Adrianne at Warmaiden's, but she said Eorland Gray-Mane was the one to talk to."

"Well, I know what your problem is."

"Hmm?"

"You're wearing it backwards," he said simply.

"Wh-what?" Finwe stammered, "What do you mean I'm wearing it backwards?"

He pointed, "The curves are for your shoulders."

She groaned, sitting up and positioning herself against a thin tree trunk behind her, "But the other side is flat, how is it supposed to fit around my- my _chest_?"

Farkas shrugged, "It's men's armor. You get used to it. Or get it fitted. Why are you askin' me, Aela would know."

"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "Thank you, by the way."

"What for?"

"For not completely freaking out on me," she explained, staring at the swirling red and pink contents of the potion in her fist, "For not attacking me, or completely mistrusting me for... for my magic."

"And thank _you_ for trusting a werewolf. I don't hate you. But I don't think you belong with the Companions."

"I don't. Honestly, all I wanted was some help with the armor, and I was told you guys knew the best. I didn't mean to get mixed up in all of this, the broken axes, the lycanthropy, the-"

"The _what_?"

"Werewolves."

"Oh."

"But you're right. I don't belong with you guys. But I don't regret having the opportunity to try."

"And I don't regret you trying."

Finwe stood and drained the rest of the potion down, tucking the empty flask in her shoulder-bag. "C'mon, let's go."

"Where?"

"Morthal. It's just over this rise," she pointed. "How about a round of mead, on me?"

...

A week later, the courier raced up to her.

"Special delivery, from Jorrvaskur in Whiterun!" he announced helpfully.

"Uhh, thanks, kid."

She'd said her goodbyes and thank-you's over a week ago, taking half-hearted well-wishes and offers to go hunting from Aela with her on the road to Winterhold. What could the Companions want now?

_Finley. Finley was the one Kodlak__was dreaming about, not Fin_we_. Honest mistake. _  
><em>I miss you. And your weird magic.<em>  
><em>Come back to visit soon. First round is on me.<em>  
><em>- Farkas<em>

_A/N: Finale! Thanks everyone for reading!_


End file.
